


A Gentleman Not In Your Books

by foxxcub



Series: Dreams Are For Rookies [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 06:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20523419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/pseuds/foxxcub
Summary: “Just for that, you’re buying the damned popcorn,” Eames replies.Arthur ducks his head slightly, glancing out the window. “Such a gentleman."





	A Gentleman Not In Your Books

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Livejournal September 2010
> 
> Sequel to "Dreams Are For Rookies"

Eames has a secret he doesn’t tell anyone. He doesn’t need to, because it speaks for itself.

“You really can’t drive, can you?” Arthur says when they’re a few blocks from his house. He immediately bites his lip and looks contrite, but Eames can see the smirk he’s trying to hide.

Eames huffs and tries very hard not to blush as the Jeep nearly stalls out again at the next stop light. “Look, I hadn’t quite mastered the whole driving bit before I came over here, and why Americans allow sixteen-year-olds to operate vehicles but won’t let them drink until they’re twenty-one is a bloody mystery to me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eames sees Arthur’s smile get a little wider. “Holy shit, I had no idea.” He’s laughing at him, and Eames wants to feel properly put out, but it’s rather hard to feel put out when Arthur’s sitting in the seat beside him dressed in a lovely dark blue shirt, ironed and smooth and tucked neatly into his jeans, the cuffs rolled to mid-forearm. Eames wants to know what that shirt looks like thoroughly wrinkled, what _Arthur_ looks like thoroughly wrinkled.

“I only drive to school and back,” he says, managing a hint of defensiveness. “You should feel flattered.”

“Or lucky, since there’s a chance you could kill us both, right?”

It shouldn’t be so damned attractive, the way Arthur smirks and pushes absently at his glasses, but it’s taking every ounce of will power Eames has not to pull over and press Arthur against the passenger door.

His very proper mother would be appalled.

But then, Eames has kind of made it a point to conveniently leave out details about his love life during her weekly calls from home, and a detail such as him requesting a date less than a day in advance would send her into a conniption. Or maybe the part where he more or less cornered the object of his affections in a linen closet, snogged him breathless and _then_ requested said date would be the final kicker.

“Just for that, you’re buying the damned popcorn,” Eames replies.

Arthur ducks his head slightly, glancing out the window. “Such a gentleman,” he mocks, but without any heat.

Eames is still waiting for the awkwardness to kick in. After all, the only time they’ve spent together involved inebriation, and while Eames hadn’t been all that drunk the night before, he knows Arthur was more than a little sloshed. It’s barely been twenty-four hours since Cobb’s party; the possibility of this entire night being a disaster is quite likely.

But the awkwardness, somehow, has yet to arrive

“Movie first, or dinner?” Arthur asks matter-of-factly. Dusk is quickly fading into night, but there’s just enough light for Eames to catch a hint of a blush when he glances over.

“Movie,” he replies, trying not to stare at Arthur’s open collar, the way the skin of his throat fades into hints of collarbone.

“Good, I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Why, so you can put off spending an hour staring at my face?” Eames says before he can think better of it. He adds a smirk for good measure.

“No, because this way we’ll have something to talk about. It’ll be like a built-in default conversation.”

“Do you really think we have nothing besides the cinema to talk about?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I did nothing today besides sleep off a hangover and watch _Ocean’s Eleven_. Pretty sure that only covers about five minutes of dinner, tops.”

“Maybe I want to hear about how you self-identify with Danny Ocean.”

“I’m more of a Linus guy, actually.”

Eames laughs, says, “Actually, that explains a lot,” and right about then is when he accidentally stalls out at the top of the hill at the end of Arthur’s subdivision.

~

Eames doesn’t remember much of the movie. It’s some action thriller about an American spy in Russia, starring some indie actor Eames hasn’t really heard of. It doesn’t really matter, though. What _does_ matter is the way Arthur lets his shoulder nudge up against Eames’ after the first set of trailers, the little comments Arthur makes under his breath after a particularly dumb advertisement (“Talking hacker cats, _really_? God, poor kids these days”), and the way Arthur laughs quietly when Eames makes a swooning noise over a clip with the latest Hollywood starlet.

Their fingers get tangled a few times in the popcorn bucket, but it’s nothing serious. They are not, in fact, reenacting a teen movie.

Not even when Eames reaches over at one point and carefully turns Arthur’s hand palm up.

Arthur’s hand twitches beneath his for a moment, his skin very, very warm, and slowly his fingers curl around Eames’. All rational thought disappears from Eames’ brain, and for the rest of the movie he is overwhelmed with the memories of Arthur pliant and eager against him, his tongue sliding tentatively into Eames’ mouth like the sweetest, filthiest thing in the world.

“I’m telling you, the guy’s girlfriend is going to turn on him,” Arthur says right against Eames’ ear. Granted, there’s gunfire on screen and lots of shouting, so it’s out of necessity, but Eames still swallows and tries not turn his head just enough to let their mouths connect.

He’s done this wrong before, pushed too hard or gone too fast until things either felt wrong or he lost interest. But with Arthur, well. Eames isn’t naive enough to think he’s “the one,” or whatever that means, but he wants to do this right. Maybe it’s about impressing Arthur, maybe it’s about wooing him like some ridiculous Regency romance novel.

Eames just knows he’s going to take this at Arthur’s speed.

Dinner, Eames thinks with a determined nod of his head, swallowing hard. Dinner first, then...the rush can come later.

~

They drive to a TGI Friday’s about five minutes away from Eames’ host family’s house. He’s not the least bit hungry, but he still says, “Shall we?”

Arthur drums his fingers against his knee. “Um, sure?” He slants Eames a look, one that’s tentative and curious and maybe even a little shy. It’s too dark to see his blush, but Eames lets himself believe it’s there.

“Unless the thought of discussing _Ocean’s Eleven_ is just too much to bear,” Eames half-jokes. He would really, _really_ like to put his hands on Arthur right now, see if his skin is blue-pale with a hint of pink in the lights of the car park. Instead, he shifts against his seat and looks away.

“I...do we have to eat?” Arthur asks.

Eames is _not_ going to get his hopes up, damn it. “No, no we don’t, we could, ah, go...somewhere else?” His mind is suddenly blank, unable to process any possible destinations over _please let me kiss you_ flashing on a constant marquee loop. “When do you have to be back?”

“Eleven or so. My parents aren’t picky.”

It’s barely eight-thirty. They’ve got _all night_. “Well.” Eames slides his hands idly over the steering wheel. “I guess we could, I don’t know, maybe—”

“I mean, if you’re hungry we can—”

“I’m not.” Eames says it too abruptly and winces. “But I don’t want to—it’s really up to you what we do from here—”

“Whatever.” This time it’s Arthur’s turn to wince. He tugs a hand through his hair and glances down at his lap. “I mean, whatever’s fine.”

Now would be the perfect opportunity for Eames to smoothly suggest they go back and lock themselves in his room, only the words sound...very wrong in his head. Seedy. True, there are dirty-filthy-wrong things he’d like to do to Arthur, but this _is_ a first date, and Arthur is..._Arthur_. He deserves more than just an action movie and a few frantic hand jobs.

Not that Eames would _mind_ a few frantic handjobs if it involved a shirtless Arthur and those soft little swallowed groans he makes when he’s lost in a kiss...

Before he can get his thoughts together and stop fantasizing for the hundredth time about kissing Arthur, Arthur clears his throat and says, “I might have an idea. About where we could go, maybe?”

Eames sincerely hopes it’s somewhere with garishly bright lighting and no flat surfaces. “And where is that, exactly?”

Arthur smiles sheepishly, his eyes darting down to the Jeep’s gear shift. “I’m really shitty with directions, so...”

“You want to drive.”

“I don’t have to, I just thought—”

Eames is out of his safety belt in a heartbeat. “At this point, my pride has been damaged enough when it comes to this bloody thing. She’s all yours.”

Arthur laughs as he opens the passenger door, and really, they don’t need to have handjobs tonight, Eames thinks. That sound is enough.

Some kissing wouldn’t hurt, either, but he’ll take what he can get.

~

Eames expects Arthur to drive them to some vacant car park that’s got a lovely view of the valley. What he doesn’t expect is to end up at the back door of the public library watching Arthur sort through a set of keys.

“Surely this is illegal,” Eames says. He’s mostly joking.

He’s also not prepared for the mischievous little smirk Arthur gives him as he glances up over the top of his glasses. “The director gave me a key so I can come in early on Sundays, so it’s mostly legal. Sort of. Luckily, I’ve also got the code to the alarm.”

“And obviously someone so young and trustworthy would never do anything of a nefarious nature.” Eames’ heart starts to beat a little faster, and he cannot take his eyes off the careful, deliberate movements of Arthur’s hands as he unlocks the door and quickly types in a string of numbers into the keypad just inside. His eyes are narrowed in concentration, the corner of his mouth caught between his teeth.

“We’re not _stealing_ anything, we’re just...hanging out. No one will even know we’re here, trust me.” Arthur flips a switch, and a single light turns on above them. Shelves of books surround them, both new and used, lining the walls in a somewhat orderly fashion. A computer sits in the corner on an old, dilapidated desk, nearly buried by hardbacks.

The cramped, windowless room smells like old paper and ink. Eames is a maybe a little enamored.

“Is this where you spend your volunteer hours?” he asks as nonchalantly as possible.

Arthur holds his arms out in a flourish. “Yep, every Sunday morning. You’re looking at what five glorious hours a week gets me—knowing every new title that comes in, logging it into the database, and making sure it goes in the right spot in the Dewey Decimal System.”

Eames runs his hand over a stack of a paperbacks, sleek and untouched. “Just you and an army of books?”

“Basically. I aim for the glamorous shit, what can I say?” He gives a self-deprecating laugh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Sorry, I don’t even know why I thought you’d—I just figured it was quiet here and we could—”

“Could what?” Eames carefully, deliberately holds Arthur’s gaze.

Arthur shrugs and quickly looks away. “I like it back here, by myself. I can think and plan stuff out for the week and no one ever bothers me.”

Eames walks around a cart of periodicals, his steps slow and even. Arthur is leaning against a shelf a few feet away, but Eames doesn’t crowd him, doesn’t let on that his pulse is racing a bit too fast and he can feel a flush creeping up the back of his neck. “Are you planning something right now, Arthur?” he asks softly.

Arthur doesn’t answer right away, but he does suddenly grab a large leather-bound volume off the shelf behind him. Eames catches a glimmer of gold lettering on the spine and realizes it’s a new edition of _The Complete Tragedies of William Shakespeare_.

“Here, this is what one of the librarians taught me years ago,” he says, kneeling on the floor with the book between his hands. “There’s a right and a wrong way to open a new book, y’know?”

Eames sinks to his knees beside him. “Show me,” he replies, even though he knows Arthur is going to, anyway. But it feels like something he should say, soft and bordering on a whisper.

“You have to hold it on its spine, like this. Then you let the front cover fold down, then the back.” He goes through the motions with a practiced ease, fingers coasting over the leather cover with an almost reverent care. “You have to let the pages fall slowly, back and forth, until you reach the center. And then you just do it all over again until its broken in. If you rush it, it’ll just break the binding. Most people don’t even know most of their hardbacks are probably all fucked up from being opened too quickly.”

It is absolutely the most absurd thing in the world to be aroused by the sight of a book being opened, but Eames can’t seem to help it. His throat feels slightly dry as he watches Arthur’s hands splay flat over the pages when the book is finally laying open. He traces a fingertip down the crease, and Eames truly cannot breathe for a moment.

Arthur’s sharp laugh startles him. “God, I’m so lame, sorry.” He shoves a hand through his hair and sits back on his heels, shoulders hunched. “I could be, like, making out with you somewhere and instead I’m babbling about fucking _book spines_.”

Eames runs the tip of his tongue over his lower lip. “You’re awfully presumptuous,” he replies with a smirk, when all he really wants to do is curl his hand into Arthur’s collar and drag him close.

Arthur’s cheeks go bright pink, and an adorably miserable expression flits across his face. “I’m just saying, we don’t have to be here. _You_ don’t have to be here, it’s a library, for fuck’s sake, who drags someone to a library on a date, anyway?” He closes the Shakespeare book, mouth twisted into a lopsided frown.

“I’ve never been to a library on a date,” Eames replies truthfully.

“Seriously, I know it’s not like a huge mystery that I’m—I know I’m nothing like the people you’ve gone out with.”

“And what people are those? Enlighten me.” He doesn’t mean to sound defensive, but he hates the idea of Arthur judging him while at the same time thinking less of himself.

“Like.” Arthur sighs. “I don’t know, people who don’t spend their Saturday nights in a library book depository? Student council guys, girls from the prom committee, the dance team captain, that guy from the swim team everyone thinks looks like Shia LeBeouf.”

Eames blushes, partly out of amused flattery that Arthur has gone to so much trouble to memorize his dating escapades, and partly out of embarrassed irritation. “Sounds like I have fairly eclectic tastes. I’m drawn to people who fascinate me.”

“You mean cool, glamorous people.”

“I suppose.” He grins, nudging his knee against Arthur’s. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

“That’s just it, though, I’m _not_ cool, and you should know that this—” He flails his hand at the room. “—Is basically who I am. Quiet and boring.”

“You forgot interesting, brilliant, and lovely.”

Arthur finally meets his gaze, and the same skittish uncertainty and disbelief Eames saw last night is there in his eyes. And just like the night before, that look causes a hot flare of want to bloom in Eames’ chest. He wishes he could explain what it is about this intelligent, defensive boy that tangles him up inside, makes this surge of protectiveness come over him at the strangest times.

A few months ago he didn’t even know of Arthur’s existence, and then suddenly he was noticing a boy in the balcony of the auditorium during rehearsals, his nose buried in a book, oblivious to his surroundings. He’d never once made eye contact with Eames, never sought him out, but every afternoon he was there, in the same seat, until Eames slowly began to notice him during school hours in the halls, the clean cut of his shoulders, the way his dark hair sometimes curled over his forehead. Eames had waited and waited for him to make some sort of acknowledgement, but it never happened.

The party at Cobb’s house had been a stroke of good luck. The linen closet had been, in Eames’ mind, fate.

Or maybe this is fate, sitting on a worn, dingy carpet in a stuffy room full of books with Arthur’s knee pressed against his and a Shakespeare volume staring up at them.

Arthur’s right, he’s not like the others whom Eames has dated over the past year, but then, that’s kind of the whole point.

He tries to say as much, but instead whispers, “I like hearing you babble about book spines,” which is not at all what he wants to say, but Eames still means it, regardless.

Arthur huffs, and it sounds like a cross between a sigh and a breathless laugh. “We've got a first edition of _Streetcar_ that came in a week ago. I was going to show it to you.” He’s whispering as well, his gaze dropping to Eames’ mouth every few seconds. The unhappy tentativeness is fading from his eyes, which is all that matters right now, not the fact that Arthur has possibly shifted closer.

“Is a first edition really any different than the battered copy at home in my nightstand?” Eames doesn’t even know what he’s saying, really, only that he can’t seem to stop.

“Yeah, it’s special,” Arthur says. A dark curl of hair hangs just over his left eyebrow. Eames feels his fingers twitch. “First editions are unique because there aren’t a lot like them.”

Eames smiles, hears himself say, “No wonder you’re partial to them.”

Arthur smirks, and it’s rather devastating to catch hints of a dimple through his blush. “Nice line.”

“It’s not a line, it’s an observation.”

“Designed specifically to get me to kiss you.”

“If I wanted you to kiss me, I would come up with something far more charming than merely comparing you to books.”

“Such as?”

Eames swallows tightly. “Such as, I’d rather be in a public library on a Saturday night with you than anywhere else in the world right now.”

Arthur blinks slowly, as if he genuinely did not expect Eames to be so earnest. He tilts his head to one side, bites his lip. “Then I guess your Saturday nights have been pretty lame, huh?” He laughs, and Eames recognizes the last-ditch effort in self-preservation.

“I just didn’t know what I was missing,” Eames says, then finally, _finally_ gives in to the urge to touch him. He carefully reaches up and slides his fingers over Arthur’s cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. He can feel Arthur go tense beneath beneath his hand, hears the catch in his breath, but unlike last night, Arthur doesn’t pull away. Instead, his eyes flutter closed as he turns his face ever so slightly into Eames’ touch, lips skimming against Eames’ palm.

And just like that, Eames goes hard.

“Arthur,” he starts, trying desperately to keep his voice low and even. This isn’t the time or place to be considering nakedness and orgasms, not when bloody _Shakespeare_ is staring him in the face and little old ladies more than likely pass through this room on a daily basis during daylight hours. He’s not going to maul Arthur against a stack of _Encyclopedia Britannicas_, for fuck’s sake.

And yet, the way Arthur is leaning into him suggests that Arthur is perhaps very much okay with being mauled in general, and Eames is...well. Eames is only human.

“Is it tacky if I tell you that I’d kiss you if you just asked?” Arthur says in this ridiculously deep, rumbly voice Eames did not even know he possessed. He’s not even saying filthy things, and yet Eames can hardly stand to imagine what that voice would sound like if he were.

“‘Tacky’ is not exactly the word I’d use.” Somehow his hand has curled itself around the back of Arthur’s neck, fingertips sifting through soft hair. The tips of their noses brush, and god, why is this suddenly so difficult? Why can’t he let himself close those last few inches and slide their lips together?

He knows the answer to his own question the moment Arthur takes his glasses off, murmurs, “Fuck it,” then licks painfully slow into Eames’ mouth.

This time, it was always going to be Arthur’s choice.

The stupidly romantic part of Eames’ brain wants to believe their kiss in the linen closet was Arthur’s first, but he’s not going to ask for proof tonight. He’s also not going to let himself think about Arthur kissing anyone else like this, like he’s handing Eames his heart while simultaneously stealing his away.

Eames might possibly be more than just a little smitten with him. Possibly. He’s not going to think about that right now, not when he’s in the process of being thoroughly snogged in a public library.

He holds himself as still as he can, letting Arthur set the pace. Eames’ thumb stutters against Arthur’s cheek as he presses closer, his head tilted back enough to allow their mouths to slip-slide together and Arthur’s tongue to explore all he wants. It’s different than the kisses before, because this isn’t under the pretense of a game or the influence of alcohol; this is Arthur kissing him not because he’s motivated by liquid courage, but because he _wants to_, and that thought alone makes Eames shiver and groan softly.

He remembers with startling clarity the moment Arthur’s hand had splayed over his bare skin, and yet the memory of that shock of heat is nothing compared to Arthur rolling back onto the carpet and tugging Eames down on top of him. Eames makes a soft noise of surprise but manages to not fall onto Arthur’s chest as he flails his arms out to brace himself.

“What would you like?” Eames gasps against Arthur’s mouth. At this angle, with Arthur panting and stretched out underneath him, Eames will do anything he asks. But Arthur shakes his head.

“Just—just—keep doing this,” he replies, breathless and rough, and he shocks Eames again by shoving his hands rather ungracefully beneath Eames’ shirt, fingertips cold where they splay over his sides.

There’s only so much a gentleman can take, and Eames is only seventeen. He decides his chivalrous streak has lasted long enough.

He groans again, louder and obscene-sounding in the stuffy little room as he sinks his weight down against Arthur, which causes their hips to line up perfectly. Eames is _ecstatic_ to know Arthur’s just as hard as he is. He tries to keep his breathing even and not give in to the overwhelming urge to grind against Arthur, which is so much easier said than done when Arthur’s hands are trapped between them, his nails scratching lightly over Eames’ skin.

Arthur whispers something, a short mess of words muffled against Eames’s mouth. Eames starts to pull back, but Arthur shifts beneath him, rocks up just enough to give them both a surge of friction, and Eames breaks out of the kiss to bury his face in Arthur’s neck to keep from moaning something utterly embarrassing.

“Please?” he hears Arthur say, and it’s soft, almost laughing, like he’s embarrassed to say the word. It’s sweet-sounding and completely at odds with the sordid, tangled heap of their bodies sprawled out on the floor.

“Please what?” He noses Arthur’s collar aside as he scrapes his teeth over the soft curve where Arthur’s neck meets his shoulder, doing his best to keep the pressure light so as not to leave a mark—only Arthur makes a half-choked sound in his throat and rolls his hips again, harder this time, and Eames loses himself for a moment. He bites down sharply, teeth and lips sucking hungrily over Arthur’s flushed skin, blood pounding through every inch of his body in a frantic rhythm.

“God, I—I just want to see you.” Arthur shivers, pushes a little more insistently at Eames’ shirt, and Eames thinks, _Oh._

“You’re honestly asking me to get naked in a library?” he asks, but he can’t help laughing a little hysterically as well, especially when Arthur’s expression goes shy and tentative again. His pupils are blown wide, his hair well on its way to being thoroughly dishevelled. The bite mark on his neck is already starting to turn purple. He’s the most gorgeous thing Eames has ever seen, and yeah, he’ll bloody well take his shirt off for him in a damn library.

Arthur swallows, and gives Eames a tiny, tiny mischievous smile, not unlike the smile Eames saw just before Arthur had unlocked the library door. “Not, um, completely naked,” Arthur whispers, his eyes trained solely on Eames’ mouth. “At least not this time.”

It’s a wonder Eames actually thought he could get through this evening without pawing at Arthur like a lovesick dog. His heart pounds heavy and fast in his chest, and his hands feel clumsy as he pushes himself upright to pull off his t-shirt, his arms getting a bit tangled in the material before he tosses it blindly aside.

“Jesus,” Arthur breathes, and Eames wants to make a half-hearted joke about how that’s not actually his name, only it’s a moot point when Arthur sits up abruptly and locks both hands behind Eames’ neck, licking over the indentations of Eames’ collarbones. Eames nearly loses his balance, but he grabs onto Arthur by the shoulders, and suddenly finds himself straddling Arthur’s lap, his knees bracketing Arthur’s hips.

Every inch of his body wants to let go and seek the friction its desperately craving. Eames closes his eyes, attempts to count backwards from ten, until he feels callused fingertips slide down his back and hears Arthur’s low growl: “Fuck, you really can’t be real.”

“I think we’ve—god—established that already,” Eames gasps as Arthur bites his way up his jaw and back into his mouth, messy and wet and so fucking good. Without a second thought, Eames rolls his hips down, making them both groan breathlessly, Arthur’s fingers scrambling against Eames’ back to hold him steady as he tries to thrust upwards. It doesn’t quite work at this angle, but it hardly matters; Eames is maybe a minute away from coming, and he can tell from the way Arthur shudders that he’s close as well.

But Eames wants skin on skin contact, wants to know what that dark flush that disappears below Arthur’s collar feels like against his tongue, his hands. He tries to keep up the precarious rhythm they’ve managed to develop as he tugs at the buttons of Arthur’s shirt, swallowing the embarrassing little whines that stick in his throat whenever Arthur kisses over an especially sensitive spot on his neck.

“Such bloody complicated clothing,” he mumbles, and he swears he hears Arthur chuckle. Eames makes a mental note (one he’ll forget once this is all over) to get Arthur into simple, removable shirts for all future dates. As it stands, he’s forced to fumble with every ridiculously small button with no help from Arthur, who seems completely content to nip gently at Eames’ ear and fracture his concentration.

_Finally_ the last button pulls free, and Eames manages to lean back to inspect his work. The dark blue fabric hangs open on Arthur’s shoulders, revealing smooth planes of bright pink skin etched with subtle lines of muscle. Arthur goes still, breath catching as Eames splays his hand over the center of Arthur’s chest.

“Look at me,” he whispers when Arthur ducks his head. He tucks his index finger under Arthur’s chin, tilts his head up enough so that Arthur meets his eyes. He’s shaking, just a little.

“You’re beautiful, you know,” Eames says roughly, tracing his fingertips down Arthur’s sternum. He wishes he could stop with the constant earnestness, but having a shivering, blushing, almost-shirtless Arthur under his hands whilst sprawled on the floor of a public library seems to bring it out of him. He truly hopes Shakespeare isn’t judging him too harshly.

Arthur makes a strange little whimpering sound, then practically _claims_ Eames’ mouth with enough force to knock their teeth together. It’s a frantic, bruising kiss that borders on painful, and Eames wants nothing less. He tries to shove Arthur’s shirt down and off his arms, but Arthur won’t stop touching Eames, his hands everywhere, pulling Eames tight against him so that they are chest to chest, hips grinding fast and gracelessly, Eames’ knees slipping against the carpet. The shirt ends up getting caught at Arthur’s elbows, and it’s all but forgotten a moment later when Eames wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, shoves his hands into dark, curling hair and lets himself melt into Arthur completely.

It startles him when it ends. Eames bites down hard on Arthur’s lower lip, fingers twisting in his hair, and instantly Arthur groans long and loud into Eames’ mouth, jerking beneath him. Eames has enough presence of mind to think, holy fucking _shit_, just before he hears Arthur plead breathlessly, “C’mon, Eames, _c’mon_, please.” Eames promptly shudders, breaking apart into a thousand pieces right in Arthur’s arms.

They stay curled around each other, gasping, for several minutes, until Eames’ knees begin to remind him of their uncomfortable position. He winces slightly, loosening his hold on Arthur.

“Sorry,” Arthur automatically murmurs, and Eames can’t help rolling his eyes fondly.

“Yes, because it’s your fault my legs have gone to sleep in the process of having the best orgasm of my life,” he drawls, literally peeling himself away from Arthur’s (warm, warm, always warm) body. His jeans are now wet and disgusting, but Eames doesn’t mind. He doubts Arthur does, either.

Arthur flops back onto his elbows as a slow, sated smile spreads over his face. He looks one hundred percent debauched with his shirt hanging off one shoulder, his mouth bruised and swollen. “Really?” he asks softly.

Eames swallows and looks away, ignoring the abrupt twinge of renewed interest in his dick. “Oh, don’t look so pleased with yourself,” he says as he reaches for his rumpled t-shirt.

Arthur’s grin widens. “Have you ever had sex in a library before?”

He huffs, fighting a grin of his own. Arthur can really be a smug (gorgeous) bastard when he tries. “If I say no, are you going to preen like a goddamn peacock for the rest of the night?” A part of him kind hopes Arthur does; confidence is a look Arthur wears well.

“Maybe. You already said it was the best orgasm of your life, so I guess it doesn’t matter, anyway.”

Eames can already see Arthur straightening his shoulders, his chin tipping up ever so slightly. Yes, definitely preening. “No, it really doesn’t,” he replies, then leans back down to kiss him lazily, his chest growing tight at the way Arthur’s mouth opens easily for him.

“Work’s never going to be boring again,” Arthur whispers against Eames’ lips. “And I’m stealing that Shakespeare book as future jerk-off material.”

Eames smirks and tumbles Arthur back against the carpet, kissing him until their giggles ruin the moment.

~

On Monday morning, Eames opens his locker to find an ancient copy of _A Streetcar Named Desire_ sitting on the top shelf. The pages are yellowed, the cover worn soft, corners creased and frayed. On the inside page there is a blue Post-It note.

_First editions aren’t all that pretty, but they’re worth it_, it reads in small, tidy cursive writing.

Eames bites his lip around a smile. It’s also signed _yours, A_.

It’s quite possible Eames has become the very hopeless romantic he’s always mocked mercilessly over the years.

Honestly, his mother would be proud.


End file.
